


A Stranger Comes to Town

by Bunnywest, DiscontentedWinter, Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Bartender Stiles Stilinski, Chef Derek Hale, Con Artist Peter Hale, Enemies to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hotel Owner Laura Hale, M/M, Sassy Peter Hale, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, Waiter Stiles Stilinski, Wet Dream, Writer Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-09-27 09:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20405362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/pseuds/DiscontentedWinter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: Peter claps his hands together once. “Right! Let’s start getting to know each other, shall we? We can all take turns introducing ourselves, and explaining who we are as writers. I’ll go first.” He stays standing, and spreads his arms wide for a moment. “As I hope you all know, I’m bestselling author Peter Hale. If there’s been a terrible mistake and you didn’t mean to be here, this is your chance to run.”He gives another charming smile to the tittering biddies on his right. He sketches a dramatic little bow, and then goes on. “Twice a year, I come out here to teach The Masterclass on writing, providing new talent,” he winks at the MFA-wannabes on the left, tucking his hands in his pockets, “with a safe environment to share your work and equip yourselves with the tools for success. I’m looking forward to getting to know you all this weekend.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Twist: Don't ask us how this happened, exactly, there was a groupchat and "omg, have you seen this?" and one thing led to another. That groupchat is either the single best thing to happen this year, or God made a mistake. Either way, we hope you enjoy our trainwreck!
> 
> Bunny: Oh I know exactly what happened- there was mention of pretentious overpriced writers workshops and their targeted clientele, which led to my asshole brain going “You know who would run those classes and fleece all them middle aged, middle class, white ladies with more money than sense? PETER.”  
And then Winter created a doc and it was all downhill from there...  
Ahem. I mean, this was totally written by three Very Serious Adults. TOTALLY.
> 
> Winter: *drinks wine and denies everything*

# 

There’s a new girl at the front desk of the Lakeview Resort when Peter arrives, dragging his suitcase behind him. One of the wheels has been squeaking since his connection in LA, a constant, aggravating noise that’s grating on his last nerve. 

“Hello.” He pastes on his most charming smile. It’s always best to start off charming—it’s often the quickest path to getting what he wants. There’s a vase of orchids on the reception desk, and, behind that, a tasteful sign announcing that yes, this is the correct location for the Peter Hale Masterclass in Creative Writing. “Peter Hale. Is my usual suite ready?” 

The girl looks at him, stars in her eyes. “Oh, yes, Mr. Hale! Just let me get you your keycard.”

Peter flashes another smile and turns to lean on the counter. He spots a gaggle of women seated in the fancy lounge on one side of the entrance. They’re mostly middle-aged, and dressed up like they’re ready for a day at the races, not a writing retreat, but Peter’s fairly sure from the way they’re staring at him that they’re part of this weekend’s course. If the girl on the desk has stars in her eyes, then the women in the lounge host galaxies. He scans the group but doesn’t see Krystal, and hopes that she won’t make a late appearance. 

Peter smiles, and nods at them, getting several appreciative gasps in return. He turns back to the desk, making sure to bend over just slightly to reach the keycard the girl slides towards him, and gives the watching women a view of his ass. Peter has always seen the value of flaunting his assets. His ass is drool-worthy and he knows it. 

He thanks the girl at the desk and then saunters off to the elevators, his suitcase squeaking behind him. 

His usual suite is on the third floor, with views of the lake and surrounding forests. Beacon Hills is wonderfully picturesque, but that’s all it has going for it. Peter left straight after high school, and only comes back now for these biannual retreats and whatever family get-togethers he can’t get out of. He’s got it down to Christmas _ or _ Thanksgiving, but rarely both. Peter prefers to keep his large family at an equally large distance wherever and however possible. 

When he arrives in his suite, he’s reminded why. There’s a card next to his complimentary bottle of champagne. Peter opens it, raising his eyebrows. Instead of a lovely welcoming message, the card reads, “You still suck, Uncle Peter.” Peter smirks. Clearly someone—and by ‘someone’ he means Laura—is still sulking that he kicked her ass in Monopoly over Christmas break. 

Peter flops on the bed, toeing his shoes off, and reaches for the phone. He dials reception. “Hello, this is Peter Hale in room 301. I’d like to speak to the general manager please.” 

There’s a moment of frantic whispered conversation, and someone says, “I’ll put you through, sir.” 

Peter hums to himself while he waits for the call to connect. 

“This is Laura Hale speaking.” It’s her customer service voice, so she sounds cheery and pleasant, and extremely unlike the niece he thrashed at Monopoly. 

“Yes, I would like to order room service,” Peter tells her. “I’d like a wagyu steak, medium rare, with medallion potatoes, and a garden salad with French dressing on the side. On the side, not on the salad. I’d also like a glass of wine. I’m thinking a Willamette Valley Pinot Noir, 2006?” 

There’s a moment of hesitation. “Sir,” Laura says, sounding politely confused, “this isn’t the number for...” And then it clicks, and her tone drops half an octave. “Uncle Peter, you asshole. When did you get in?” 

“About five minutes ago,” he replies. “And I’m starving. Bring me foooood.” 

“No,” she snorts. “I’m literally about to go into a meeting, but because I love you so much, I’ll send someone up with something.” 

“Is Derek working?” 

“Yes, as head chef, not your personal waiter.” And then she hangs up on him, which is subpar customer service, but what can you expect from Beacon Hills? If nothing else, he knows the food will be decent, since Derek’s the one cooking it. 

Sure enough, when it arrives, it’s deliciously seasoned and cooked to perfection. It’s just not what he ordered, aside from the Pinot Noir. At least the dressing is on the side. 

After an early dinner, he freshens up, and then heads down to the room that’s booked through the weekend for the official meet-and-greet. Everyone who plans to attend should have arrived by now, especially since it was clearly stated on the program listing that he wants to meet all of his _ talented _pupils tonight, before the Masterclass begins in earnest tomorrow. 

As he steps into the conference room, he hears a distinctive high-pitched squeal, and has a moment to brace himself and nail on his smile before Krystal barrels into him. He pats her shoulder gently as she wraps her arms around his waist and _ squeezes_, practically nuzzling into his shoulder. When she doesn’t let go after it starts getting weird, he clears his throat. “Krystal, darling, there’ll be time to catch up later. For right now, it wouldn’t be fair to deprive your fellow students of my attention.” 

“Right.” She steps back and winks with one heavily made-up eye. “You’re on the clock. I understand.” 

She really, really doesn’t is the problem, but she’s a regular, so he doesn’t want to scare her off entirely if he can help it. He checks the rest of the room, who are looking between him and Krystal like a tennis match, and does a quick headcount. Fourteen. Excellent. He’ll be able to treat himself to a nice little Alaskan cruise this summer.

Peter claps his hands together once. “Right! Let’s start getting to know each other, shall we? We can all take turns introducing ourselves, and explaining who we are as writers. I’ll go first.” He stays standing, and spreads his arms wide for a moment. “As I hope you all know, I’m bestselling author Peter Hale. If there’s been a terrible mistake and you didn’t mean to be here, this is your chance to run.” 

He gives another charming smile to the tittering biddies on his right. He sketches a dramatic little bow, and then goes on. “Twice a year, I come out here to teach The Masterclass on writing, providing new talent,” he winks at the MFA-wannabes on the left, tucking his hands in his pockets, “with a safe environment to share your work and equip yourselves with the tools for success. I’m looking forward to getting to know you all this weekend.” 

“Oh, but you already know Krystal, don’t you?” one of the older women smirks, and if he’s not mistaken, that’s jealousy curving her mouth and tilting her chin. He makes a note of that—it’ll probably be useful later. 

For now, Peter rolls his shoulders forward, keeping his hands in his pockets and giving his best ‘aw, shucks’ face. “Krystal has been a student of mine for a while now, has attended The Masterclass a couple times. I get close with my students—like to give them one-on-one attention and story coaching that those big writing courses just can’t provide.” It’s completely plausible, and not entirely untrue, while still being a big fat lie. 

The disapproving glares being sent Krystal’s way by the Biddy Brigade are too enjoyable to put a stop to, though. And if the ladies want to fight over Peter like he’s the juiciest steak on the barbecue, who’s he to deprive them of the opportunity?

With that in mind, he turns his attention to the glariest of the glarers. “And you are?” He extends a hand in her direction, flashes her a smile, and notes the blush creeping up her cheeks with satisfaction. 

“I’m Barb?” The raised inflection at the end makes it sound like a question, and Peter just _ knows _ that at some stage in the weekend Barb will come to him stammering and blushing and tell him how _ Love, Eternal _ changed her life. A fangirl, then. He can work with that.

“Lovely to meet you, Barb. Tell me about your writing.” He gazes at her intensely, like she’s the most interesting thing in the room, and is quietly thankful for the half-a-bottle of complimentary wine under his belt—it makes this part tolerable, at least. Because Peter's run this class for five years now, and he can already tell what’s going to come out of Barb’s mouth. It’s always along the same lines—

“I want to write historical romance, but with _ heart.” _

“I want to write a love story, but the main character’s not like other girls, she’s independent and feisty, and that’s why the rogue falls for her.”

“I want to write about a woman who’s attractive, but _ unconventionally _ attractive.”

—and, whichever it is, he’ll nod and hum and look like it’s something groundbreaking, because honestly? With the prices these women are willing to pay, if they told him they were writing a novel featuring teenage werewolves rampaging hormonally amidst oblivious adults in a tiny California town he’d assure them it was genius.

This particular Barb (they’re all Barbs as far as Peter’s concerned, apart from Krystal—Krystal is special) wants to write a Christian based murder mystery/love story, where the pastor and his plucky assistant solve the mystery with the help of the Holy Spirit. Peter does his best not to hum the theme from Scooby Doo, and keeps his professional smile plastered on his face as Barb tells him she has the whole storyline locked down, she just needs help with dialogue. And descriptors. Maybe a smidge of grammar.

After Barb, there’s Pamela. She works in a boutique four hours a week selling ‘lovely little things’ but feels she needs a creative outlet. She’s never written a word in her life, but she’s certain it’s all in there, just waiting to burst forth. Peter eyes her up appraisingly. Right now, the only thing threatening to burst forth is the obviously surgically-enhanced rack that’s straining at the ridiculously tight V-neck she’s wearing. Not that Peter’s in any position to judge on that score—he made certain to unbutton his shirt just slightly lower than is considered decent, showing off his tan. Still. Pamela looks like someone who’d definitely benefit from a private session or two. Peter makes sure to tip her a wink, and is far more amused than he should be by the scowl on Krystal’s face. 

He works his way around the group. He has four mystery writers, seven romancers, the Christian mystery, one tale of divorce gone bad (or revenge gone right), and Krystal’s “stream of consciousness erotica.” At the end of the intros, he’s more than ready to stab an icepick through his eardrum. It’s only the thought of his deliciously plump bank balance that keeps him smiling.

“Well, it sounds like we’re going to have a fabulous weekend,” he purrs. “I’m looking forward to seeing all your talent on show tomorrow. Now if you’ll excuse me, I really do need to get my beauty sleep.” That line’s met with a round of titters, just like it is every time he uses it. Sometimes Peter wonders what it would be like to have to work for someone’s attention. Maybe he’d enjoy the challenge.

He manages to sidle out of the room, after getting waylaid four times and having to pull Barb into a half-hug in order to cut Krystal off at the pass. Barb looks like she might cry. Peter makes his escape as swiftly as he can, and wonders when exactly his writing career turned into...this. 

He sighs as he waits for the elevator to carry him back up to his suite. 

No, he knows. It was the moment he finished _ Love, Eternal_, a novel he’d written as a way to overcome his shitty writer’s block, and somehow it got big. New York Times Bestseller big. Oprah Bookclub big. Hollywood adaptation starring that guy with the weird face that everyone thinks is handsome big. And suddenly Peter was the next Nicholas Sparks, woman whisperer, and he still has no fucking idea how that happened. He wonders idly if Nicholas Sparks does. He should email and ask. 

When the elevator doors open, Peter steps out and lets his smile fade. 

Look, the money is nice. The money is fucking _ awesome_, but Peter has the sinking feeling that when he dies, every obituary will remember him as the author of _ Love, Eternal _ and not, well, something actually _ good_. One of his other novels that almost no one knows of, because the only book of his they care about is the one he hates. 

Oh, well. He’s still got half of that bottle of complimentary champagne in his room that literally has his name on it. Well, it has “You still suck, Uncle Peter” on it, which is close enough. Peter heads down the hall to his room to open it. When he gets there, he sees a second bottle’s been left for him, a nice red. It has a sticky note on it that reads “Because Krystal” in familiar chicken scratch, and Peter’s never loved his nephew more. He doesn’t hesitate to crack it open. 

He’s pleasantly buzzed by the time he finishes his second glass. 

When midnight rolls around, he’s more than ready to soak away the plane ride and fall into bed. He’s on his way to do just that when there’s a knock at the door. He sincerely hopes it’s Laura. At least she’ll just give him shit (and possibly throw Monopoly money at him). 

He checks the peephole first, but can’t see who it is. They’re standing out of range, and he can see a shoulder, and part of an arm, but that’s it. Ah, well. If it’s the paps, he can sue and make Laura comp the room, and if it’s a gunman with a grudge, at least he doesn’t have to do the whole ‘Masterclass’ song and dance this weekend. 

Unfortunately, he’s not that lucky, because it’s Krystal. 

Krystal, in absolutely nothing under her hotel-issued bathrobe, which he knows, because it’s open. She smiles what she thinks is seductively, and stretches one arm up the doorframe. It drags his attention to her breasts, which—hm, nipple rings. She didn’t have those last time. It also makes her hip pop, and when he follows it down, he sees stilettos. Because of course he does. 

He looks over her again, paying a bit more attention this time, and sees that her smokey-eye is Instagram-ready, her nails clearly professionally sculpted into crimson quasi-talons, and, well. Her new body jewellery. Coupled with this little stunt, she’s crying for attention so loudly he’s surprised they can’t hear her from the lobby, and he’d wonder where she finds the time for this much personal grooming, but he already knows she’s a trophy wife. 

“Hey there, Professor Hale,” she husks, and sweet Jesus, _ no_. 

He rubs his eyes, the gesture more honest than he’d like it to be. “Krystal, darling, what are you doing here?” 

She drops her chin, cocking an eyebrow. “You _ know _why I’m here.” 

Peter has never regretted bedding a beautiful woman this much in his life. He takes a deep breath and visualizes little dollar bills raining into his bank vault. Swimming in gold coins like Scrooge McDuck. It gives him the patience to plaster on a soft smile. “Pet, you know this isn’t a good time. Besides,” he drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and leans in, “jet lag can do a real number on the body.” 

Her perfectly-lipsticked mouth forms a small ‘o’. “I gotcha, Peter.” She reaches out and strokes a finger down the side of his face. “A little hunger to whet the appetite, huh?” 

That is, blessedly, the last thing she says before sauntering away, and Peter does not slam the hotel door shut, because he’s considerate of the other guests on the floor. 

He might, however, let his head thunk against it once it’s closed. 

*** 

Peter meets Laura for breakfast at seven. She’s looking bright and professional, all correctly made-up and styled even though the sun is barely peeking over the glittering surface of the lake. Peter feels slightly rumpled and hungover. He’s going to need to fix that before his first tutorial at nine. 

“It’s a decent turn out,” she comments, sipping her tea. It’s herbal, he can smell it from here, and he hates her just a little bit, for having the absolute gall to not need caffeine. 

Peter stabs at his omelet. It’s a little rubbery. Derek mustn’t be on shift yet. “It’s not bad. They all got the massage and pamper package, right?” 

“Yes.” Laura raises her eyebrows, and gives him a pointed look. “You won’t be saddled with them for the full forty-eight hours.” 

She knows him too well. 

“And we’re in the Willow Room all weekend?” 

Laura nods. “And this year you have Stiles.” 

Peter makes a face. “What’s a Stiles?” 

“Stiles is one of my staff,” Laura says. “I’m training him up to do events, so he’s your go-to guy when the coffee runs out, or the water jugs need refilling, or one of your ladies loses a pencil. He’ll be on hand to make sure everything runs smoothly. If you have an issue, please talk to him first. Do not call me.” 

“But Lulu, we’re family.” Peter lays a hand on his chest, feigning hurt. 

“But _ Peter_,” she whines obnoxiously. “I would like a fucking weekend off for once.” 

Dammit. Peter knew he should have let her have Mayfair. “Fine. But your boy had better be competent. The Barbs are very demanding.”

“Please. As if I’d dare send _ Bestselling Author Peter Hale _ someone less than competent.” Peter can _ hear _ the air quotes around his name, but she just smiles sweetly when he glares. Rude little witch. He pokes at his omelet again and checks his watch. At least he has time for another coffee before he has to go and put on his Professional Writer Face. 

***

The Willow Room is a medium-sized conference room on the ground floor of the Lakeview Resort with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the lake itself, and an ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling that dates back to the 1890s. Peter hates that chandelier deeply and personally. He remembers having to clean it as a teenager, back when his parents still ran the resort and he worked here on weekends and tourist season. Peter won’t say that the chandelier is _ completely _ responsible for the fact he left town as soon as he graduated high school, but it certainly played a role. Still, he can admit it’s beautiful. 

The Willow Room is set up with plush couches and dinky little tables. It looks more like a sitting room than a classroom, which is exactly what people are paying for. If they’d wanted substance over style, they would have taken a course at a local community college. No, they’re here for the ambience, the exclusivity, and for bragging rights of having Peter Hale’s personal attention over the course of the weekend. Peter’s fully aware that for the next few months his students will be sure to litter their conversation with sentences like, “Well when I was talking to Peter about my novel—you know, Peter Hale? He’s so lovely in person, we really connected. Anyway, Peter says…” He guesses if they’re willing to pay the price, they can say what they want, as long as they send all their rich little friends along next time.

At the side of the room, opposite the wall of windows, there’s a buffet set up. Tiny delicate sandwiches and cakes that Peter knows this crowd won’t touch—they’re neither vegan, nor carb-free—and a selection of hors d’oeuvres that they’ll descend on like a plague of locusts: seared salmon, cucumber avocado rolls, parmesan tomato chips, and a host of other items that Peter can’t identify. There’s also tea, coffee, sparkling water, and a cocktail bar. 

Krystal is at the cocktail bar when Peter arrives, giving directions to a startled-looking young man with eyes as wide as saucers and a terrible case of bed-hair that’s trying its hardest to look like an intentional style choice. 

“Good morning,” Peter announces to the room, and goes to set his leather-bound journal down on the table beside his armchair. “We’ll begin just as soon as I get my coffee. I can’t be the only one who needs one of those to start the day, I’m sure.” 

The women titter appreciatively as though Peter’s an absolute raconteur. All except Krystal, who’s still terrorizing the young man in her attempt to get a liquid breakfast. Jesus, Peter thinks. It’s five past nine. Even he normally makes it 'til eleven. But Krsytal’s determined, and pokes the young man in the chest with a perfectly manicured nail. “You’re meant to be here if we need anything, Giles. And I _ need _ a Tequila Sunrise.”

Peter rolls his eyes. Obviously Krystal’s not dealing with rejection well. The waiter straightens his spine and tugs at his cuffs as if preparing himself for battle. “I’m sorry, Mistal is it? We offer Mimosas at breakfast, and nothing else. You’ll have to wait until a more civilized hour for anything stronger.”

Oh, this boy has bite. Peter pays slightly more attention to the exchange, if only because he’d like his coffee now, please. Krystal folds her arms across her chest. “It’s Krys-tal. With a K. Like 'kiss',” she says pointedly, blowing one at Peter.

“And it’s Stiles, with an S—as in, _ still _ not serving you tequila before noon, because I’d like to keep my job.” He folds his own arms, and Peter notes he’s not as scrawny as he looks—there's some breadth to those shoulders. 

The two of them would probably stand there all day, so Peter clears his throat, and chimes in with, “And I’m Peter with a P, as in ‘please pour my coffee like you’re being paid to do, and stop upsetting my writers’. We’re very delicate, we creative types,” he says with a self-deprecating grin. 

The young man mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like _ creative my ass, _but he pours the coffee and hands it over. “Here you are, Mr. Hale.” 

He fills a glass with premixed orange juice and champagne and hands it to Krystal, silently daring her to object, but she must decide that her attention is better directed at Peter. She takes the glass with a tinkling laugh. “You know what they say, write drunk, edit sober!” She clinks her glass against Peter’s coffee cup and flutters her lashes.

“Ah, that was Hemingway, I believe,” Peter says with a charming smile, gesturing her towards a seat. He doesn’t mention that it was advice he followed far too faithfully when he wrote the damned book responsible for the trainwreck his career’s become. 

He also doesn’t mention that Hemingway is at least 236% more attractive than Krystal right now, despite having been dead for fifty-something years. 

He’s going to have to keep an eye on her. She’s going to put the others off if she keeps this up. In the meantime, he has a ‘class’ to run, so he smiles at the room and takes a seat. He takes a sip of his coffee, then sets the cup down on the table and reaches for his leather-bound journal. It looks like the sort of thing a successful author ought to own—just like his jacket with the patches at the elbows that Laura bought him as a joke. It makes him look like a disaffected English professor, and he loathes it, but his ladies certainly like the image. 

He opens the journal to his unfinished game of tic-tac-toe. “Well then,” he says, “shall we get to know one another?” 

He resists the urge to look at his watch as he plasters a smile on his face and thinks of that Alaskan cruise. It’s going to be a long morning. 

It’s been six months since Peter ran one of these workshops, but he falls into it as easily as ever. He’s always been charming, skilled at getting people to talk while revealing very little about himself in the process. He quickly establishes who’s here to actually try to learn something, who’s shown up for the pampering and cocktails, and who’s here just so they can get their copy of _ Love, Eternal _ signed and tag Peter Hale on their social media. Most of his class aren’t here to learn. They’re not here to get to know their muses—they’re here to apply to be Peter’s. 

Jesus. Peter’s agent, Duke, thought it would be a savvy gimmick to dedicate _ Love, Eternal _ to the mysterious lover who left Peter broken-hearted, and it’s since turned into this big ridiculous thing. There’s no mystery lover, of course. There never was. _ Peter’s _ always been the heartbreaker, not the one left broken-hearted. It was only ever part of the promo, but the lie’s taken on a life of its own. At least eighty percent of every class is here to heal his broken heart and make him whole again with the power of their devotion. Sometimes Peter dreams of writing a sequel to _ Love, Eternal _ where his main character—the amnesiac Addison, who’s trying to track down the wife he’s forgotten through a series of clues he gets from the objects around him—dies in a fire in the first chapter. That’ll fucking show them, right? 

But instead, he pastes on a smile while he pretends to listen to each of these women gush about his talent, the way his book just _ spoke _ to them on a spiritual level, and replays the ka-ching of Scrooge McDuck diving into all those coins in the back of his mind. He gives his patented talk on the muse, and on how important it is to have a _ vision_, and how you can’t let anyone take that away from you. You have to _ believe_. He sounds like a walking, talking affirmational poster. Those sort they put in soulless cubicles and dentists’ offices, with marathon runners and raindrops and other meaningless bullshit. 

They’re on track to break for lunch at noon, and Peter promises that when they come back they’ll dig into the bones of a good story: character and plot. He’s willing to bet that at least half the class will attempt to write knockoffs of_ Love, Eternal_. 

Except Krystal, apparently, who takes the opportunity to remind the room that she’s writing stream-of-consciousness erotica. 

“It hasn’t really got a plot,” she says, “because it’s stream-of-consciousness. And it’s semi-autobiographical.” 

“It sounds _ fascinating_.” Peter ignores the sudden coughing fit from the refreshment table. 

“Oh, I think you’ll love it,” she simpers, lashes fluttering. She leans forward, and her breasts strain against her blouse. “I just need something for the... _ climax_.” 

The waiter sounds like he’s choking to death now. Peter envies him. 

“Well, stream-of-consciousness doesn’t necessarily follow the usual narrative arc,” he attempts, hoping to divert her. “It’s possible you don’t need a...” 

And oh shit. He’s walked right into that trap, hasn’t he? 

“A climax?” she asks breathily. “Oh no, I think I _ definitely _ need that.” 

Peter thinks, suddenly, wistfully, of the grocery store in his neighborhood that has the “Help Wanted” sign out front. How hard could it be to learn to stock shelves? 

One of the Barbs snorts. “Really, dear, if you’re having trouble managing that, maybe this isn’t the place for you.” 

The duck-pout slides off Krystal’s face as she spins in her seat to face Barb-in-purple. “Excuse you?” 

The older woman—she has to be at least sixty, given her unflappability and the shrewd way she’s staring at Krystal—gives a tiny little gotcha of a smile. “I mean, dear, that if you’re struggling with something as basic as narrative climax in a semi-autobiographical format, maybe what you need isn’t Peter, but a return to the basics.” 

Peter could honestly kiss her right now. As it is, he might just have to convince the waiter to make his next coffee with a shot of whiskey, civilized hours be damned. “Alright, well, we’ll save any further questions about format for later. For the moment, why don’t you,” he tips his head and smiles at Barb-in-purple, “tell me how I can help you get the most out of your story.” 

She lays out a few pages of what she’s working on. “I need some help with the dialogue in this scene. The pastor and his assistant are meant to be flirting, while appearing to talk about the mystery they’re trying to solve, but I’m not sure it’s coming across right.” 

“Let me have a look. Everyone else? Swap the first two pages of your story with someone, and try to see what works and what doesn’t in the opening scenes. You only have one chance to grab your reader—don’t waste it!” Knowing that it’ll take this group at least ten minutes to get their papers swapped around while half of them eye each other in disgust or distrust, he focuses on reading Barb’s scene. 

He can feel his eyebrows trying to climb off his face by the fourth paragraph. The prose is so purple you could make a cloak and dress the pope in it. The intention of flirting’s definitely there, but it’s so heavily wrapped in half-quoted scripture that he isn’t sure if he’s reading a sermon or the opening scene of a cut-rate porno. (Not that Peter watches cut rate porn—he pays the fee, and goes straight to premium.)

Barb-in-purple clears her throat, and Peter knows he has to find something to say about this that won’t crush her spirit. Quite apart from anything else, disillusioned wannabe-authors don’t book return workshops. “I take it our pastor’s an innocent?” he asks.

She nods vigorously. “He’s a holy man, dedicated his life to the Lord, and she’s been saving herself for marriage, but I wanted there to be a bit of the lure of the forbidden.” 

Jesus titty-fucking Christ. “Well, then I would suggest that perhaps the pastor is attracted to his assistant's soul, rather than any of her more earthly attributes. Have you, ah...have you considered perhaps giving her an aura that he can see and be drawn to? Spiritually, of course.” 

How is he even saying this with a straight face? And why is Barb nodding slowly like he’s suddenly cracked open the case? _ And why is the waiter making those strangled noises? _

“Yes,” she says at last. “I think that will work. Now, this part here where he says he likes her modest dress? Do you think he should touch her sleeve, maybe? Or would that be too forward?” 

Peter blinks. “I think that would be fine, but of course you have to listen to your own muse.” 

Because Peter’s muse checked out from this conversation a long time ago, went around to the back of the hotel and took a cab to Timbuktu. 

“So the dialogue works, do you think?” Barb asks. “There aren’t too many adverbs?” 

“Not at all,” Peter lies. “You can _ never _ have too many adverbs. They even have ‘add’ in the description, to encourage you to use more.” 

Over by the buffet, the waiter drops a glass. Peter’s head whips around and he glares. The waiter glares right back, and Peter can clearly read his lips as he mouths _ what a crock. _Peter runs a hand through his hair, middle finger extended in response, and takes petty satisfaction in the gasp that draws from the brat.

Barb-in-purple misses the whole thing.

But it’s shaken Peter, being called out, and it throws off his whole groove. When Barb asks what’s wrong, he assures her that it's just because he’s moved by the depth of feeling in her work so far. Then he distracts her by telling her that it’s a good idea for her characters to always use each other’s names when they talk, so it’s clear who’s speaking. 

He hears a grunt of badly-suppressed indignation from the irritating waiter, and a moment later a stack of coffee cups clatters to the floor, shattering and cracking, sending bits of porcelain bouncing all over the place. 

“Well then,” Peter says in the stunned silence after the coffee cup carnage. “I suppose now is as good a time as any to have our lunch break?” 

And he and the ladies sail out of the room, leaving the help to clean up his mess.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, apparently we need to put a warning label on this shit, so here goes -
> 
> Warning: do not attempt to drink liquids while reading this fic, as you may choke, aspirate, and/or spray nearby electronics. We accept no liability for the consequences should you attempt to hydrate during your reading of the above or below.  


Peter makes his charming excuses and escapes to his room for lunch—if he has to spend much more time with the Barbs he’ll snap—and orders room service. It’s delivered quickly, and by the head chef himself. 

“How’s the workshop going?” Derek asks, helping himself to one of Peter’s fries. 

Peter slaps his hand away. “Same as usual.” 

He contemplates whether or not to tattle on the rude little waiter to Derek, but decides that no, he’ll save that for Laura. And then he decides he won’t tell her either, because it would make him look petty—and he _is _ petty, but he doesn’t like to _ look _ like it—and she doesn’t need the ammunition. 

And also because she’d probably agree with the little twerp out of spite. 

So instead Peter spends a few minutes catching up with Derek, reminding him that his talents are wasted in Beacon Hills, and prying into his love life. Derek spends a few minutes stealing Peter’s fries and grunting in response to everything he’s asked. 

Peter feels refreshed and invigorated when he goes back down for the afternoon session. This is where he likes to really mix things up a bit, have Krystal and the Barbs give each other detailed critique. It’s endlessly entertaining to have them all pay for the privilege of insulting each other, _ and _saves him a mountain of effort. Win-win. 

When he walks back into the Willow Room ten minutes early, he sees the rude waiter sprawled on one of the lounges. 

“Giles, is it?” he asks, knowing full well that it isn’t. “Giles with a G, for ‘Get the fuck off that couch’?”

“It’s Stiles, actually,” the waiter says. “Stiles with an S, as in ‘Someone is a scam artist.’” He straightens his shirt. “That’s you, by the way. You’re a scam artist. You’re charging these women thousands of dollars and telling them that _ ad_-verb means ‘add more’?” 

Peter rolls his eyes. Stiles’s moral outrage would be worth a hell of a lot more if he didn’t know the hotel was hosting a convention for Young Living next month. Fucking _ Young Living_. Peter hopes Laura gets their money upfront, or some asshole will attempt to pay her in diffusers and asthma attacks. At least Peter isn’t selling literal snake oil. 

“And I suppose you could do better, right?” he asks, moving over to the buffet to fetch himself a coffee since Stiles seems disinclined to offer to do it for him. He grabs for a paper napkin, and squints at it. It’s covered in the scrawl of someone’s messy handwriting. Peter can only make out a few words here and there: _ structure, character, 8 point plan_. Who’s been taking notes on a napkin? “With what I’m sure was your stellar high school-equivalent education?” 

He rolls his eyes, bundles the napkin up, and tosses it into the trash can under the table. 

Stiles gives an indignant squawk. 

Peter rounds on him. “Look, I don’t need the attitude. And neither do my writers. If you can’t stand there with your mouth shut and watch the levels on the water jugs, then I’ll phone Laura and get her to replace you with someone who _ can_, understood?” 

Stiles gives him a mulish stare as his mouth twists. “Yeah, got it.” He gets up off the couch and grabs the trash can. 

Peter raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say a word. 

Stiles’s jaw clenches for a moment before he gives Peter the most half-assed customer service smile Peter’s ever seen. “Just doing my job and taking out the trash. That alright with you, _ sir? _” 

And, well. Peter can’t exactly give the boy shit for that, not after telling him to shut up and do his job. Not without looking petty. So he simply waves the boy away, and Stiles leaves with the can. 

The Barbs file in while he’s gone, and Peter plasters on his perfect smile and takes his seat in the armchair. “Now, I hope that you all recharged your batteries over lunch, because this afternoon we’re going to share our writing with each other, and open up the floor to feedback. Who would like to go first?” 

By the time Stiles gets back and replaces the empty trash can, two of the Barbs are arguing about semicolons, Krystal is giving a dramatic reading of her stream-of-consciousness erotica, and another Barb is fighting back tears because her friend thinks she stole her idea. 

Peter wanders the room, soothing feathers here and ruffling them there, and dreaming of his Alaskan cruise. 

“Okay,” someone says suddenly. Someone _ male_. “There are no original ideas in fiction though.” 

Peter’s head snaps up. 

Dear god. _ Stiles _ is talking. Why is Stiles talking? Who said he could talk? 

“Like, there are only seven plots in the world.” Stiles leans forward, bracing his forearms on the counter in front of him. “There’s Overcoming the Monster, Rags to Riches, The Quest, Voyage and Return, Comedy, Tragedy, and Rebirth.” His eyes are bright and his smile seems genuine. “There’s not a single story that’s ever been written that doesn’t fit into one of those categories, right? Like, not a single one.” 

The Barbs murmur amongst themselves thoughtfully. 

Peter leans against one of the couches, cocking an eyebrow at Stiles. Stiles looks at him, and pauses, and Peter gives him a “go ahead” gesture. Why the fuck not? He can’t wait to see the idiot embarrass himself. 

“So Patricia hasn’t really stolen your plot, Candace,” Stiles says, and how does he know their names? “You’re both writing Rags to Riches, but you’re both going to write it in different ways, right?” 

Candace and Patricia exchange suspicious glances. 

“And actually,” Stiles continues, “the writer John Gardner broke it down even further by saying there were only _ two _ plot archetypes: a man goes on a journey, or a stranger comes to town. Rags to riches, I guess, is about a man—or a woman—going on a journey.”

“Well, everything’s a journey,” Peter says, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Sure,” Stiles shrugs, and Peter’s almost annoyed at the easy acceptance. “But it also depends on point of view. This right here? If you were writing about this weekend, your story would be about a man going on a journey. But mine would be about a stranger coming into town.” 

Peter snorts, but he can’t help but be a little impressed, and not only with the boy’s audacity. He’s clearly smarter than Peter gave him credit for. But he also hasn’t paid $2500 plus accommodation and meals for the right to have a conversation with Peter Hale, so he needs to be quiet now. 

“How’s that coffee coming along, Stiles?” Peter asks pointedly. 

Stiles opens his mouth to respond before closing it slowly with a click. The look in his eyes goes beyond insubordination and starts hinting at intellectual violence. 

“Actually,” one of the Barbs ventures, “I’d like to know more about these seven plots. Or the two.” She turns her expectant gaze toward Peter. “Can you explain more about those, Peter?” 

“Of course,” Peter says, trying not to grit his teeth. Goddamit. Now he’s actually going to have to _ teach _ something. 

*** 

The highest (or possibly lowest) point of Peter's career had been the year he'd run what he billed The Silent Retreat, marketing it as “learning to write from a place of stillness.” He'd barely had to lift a finger and instead, spent the whole weekend sitting in the corner getting pleasantly soused on whiskey sours, and at the end of it his ladies had all told him it was life-changing. It was the easiest money he’d ever made.

This is the exact opposite of that, thanks to that little fucking troll of a waiter.

Peter has a headache by 4 pm, and his charming smile is ragged at the edges. He hasn’t had to _ think _ so much in years, and he’s not happy about it. He’s also not happy at the way Stiles stood over by the buffet and blatantly smirked whenever Peter had to explain something in detail. Fuck that little brat for actually getting the ladies invested in the craft. They’re supposed to be here for cocktails, massages, and a little bit of pampering to their egos, not actual _ work_. If they were interested in doing work, they would have booked a class with an actual writer, not Peter Hale, author of _ Love, Eternal_. 

The only saving grace is that they’re breaking early so the ladies can spend the rest of the afternoon having their massages and makeovers. He waves his baby-authors away, hinting that he might see them at the hotel bar later on, and checks his watch to see if he’s got time for a nap before dinner. He does, thank fuck. But first he’ll take another coffee. 

Stiles is at the buffet, clearing away the day’s cups and plates. 

“Hey,” he says when Peter joins him. “That stuff you talked about this afternoon, it was really interesting.” 

Peter wants to punch him in the face. He settles for a glare instead. 

“Like, you know your stuff,” Stiles continues. “When you’re not just, you know...” 

“No, I don’t know.” Peter smirks nastily. “Please, call me a scam artist again.” 

Stiles pauses. “I didn’t—”

“Listen,” Peter says, “if you don’t like the way I run my class, guess what?” 

Stiles licks his lips. “What?” 

“I. Don’t. Care.” Peter picks up his coffee. “You’re a waiter, not a student. I don’t give a flying fuck what you think.” 

“Oh,” Stiles says. He wrinkles his nose and looks oddly... disappointed? “That’s fair, I guess, but verbally abusing hotel staff—even at a hotel your niece owns—is just a bad life choice, dude. Swearing at me when all I did was try to help, or God forbid, give you a compliment, is a great way to get shit service from the maids. And that’s not just here, by the way. Service staff always talk.” 

“You called me a scam artist!” Peter narrows his eyes, but still takes the coffee he’s handed. When he takes a sip, it’s made exactly the way he takes it. 

Stiles has the audacity to shrug. “Well, I mean. You were acting like one, then. This afternoon, you weren’t.” 

Peter wants to strangle him. “How about I respect _ your _ profession when you start respecting _ mine_?” 

“Sure thing. Just tell me,” Stiles leans in close, like he has any right, and murmurs, “do _ you _ have any respect for what you’re doing here?” 

There’s no good answer to that, so Peter treats the insolent whelp to his coldest glare, and walks out. 

Stiles should thank his lucky stars that Peter’s still carrying his coffee, and Stiles isn’t wearing it. 

***

“I really don’t like him,” Peter seethes when Derek brings him his dinner. 

“I really don’t care,” Derek says blithely. Then, a moment later, “Wait, who?” 

“_Stiles_,” Peter mutters. “The arrogant little brat Laura is apparently training to handle events, even though he shouldn’t be trusted to handle anything more complicated than Duplo.” 

“Oh,” Derek says, and blinks slowly. “Stiles.” And then he grins. 

Peter glares. 

“I like him.” Derek shrugs. “He’s funny. Smart as hell, too.” 

“He’s a terrible fucking waiter!” 

“Oh yeah.” Derek pats Peter on the shoulder. “He is a terrible waiter.” 

Peter, slightly mollified, eats the rest of his Poulet de Provencal in silence. 

***

Peter’s at the hotel bar after dinner, wondering where in the hell the bartender is when one of the Barbs finds him. She settles carefully in the seat next to him, asking, “Would you mind?” 

He smiles. “Of course not, if it’s you.” 

She blushes and giggles, and he remembers—Pamela, she of the heaving bosom and untapped potential. The weekend is short, so he might as well take the opportunity that just sidled up to him in the bar. Tap that potential, so to speak. “Drink?” he offers, as if he’s buying, as if this weekend isn’t all-inclusive. “What would you like?”

She gives a nod. “Surprise me with something special.” 

It’s almost too easy. “I think you look like a woman in need of a decent Orgasm.” 

There’s an awful, familiar choking sound. Peter turns to find none other than his least favorite waiter standing behind the bar. He stares the boy down. “An Orgasm for the lovely lady, please Giles. I assume you know what one of those involves?”

Stiles juts his chin out and raises extremely unimpressed eyebrows, but starts mixing the cocktail. Peter leans into Pamela’s space, all charm and promise. “Have you decided what you want to write about yet?” he purrs.

She smirks. “I liked the sound of the stream-of-consciousness erotica, but I just don’t have much of an imagination. My dear departed husband was, shall we say, unadventurous.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder, and leans in so Peter can see down her top. It’s a nice view—her surgeon’s done some top-notch work.

Peter scoots his barstool closer. “Such a shame. Maybe you need to broaden your horizons? It can be very difficult to write about experiences you haven’t researched.” He slips a hand up the length of her thigh, and she doesn’t pull away. This is going swimmingly. Maybe if he can bag Pamela for the weekend Krystal will get the hint.

Pamela’s staring at him, mouth hanging open. Peter runs a thumb along her bottom lip, soft and delicate. “Maybe we could have some one-on-one sessions in my room.”

Before she can answer, a loud voice proclaims, “An Orgasm for the lady,” and a glass is banged on the bar with such force that the contents slop over the side. The waiter’s giving Peter a death glare as he adds a second glass. “And a drink that reminded me of you, Mr. Hale.”

Peter eyes the clear green concoction. Despite his better judgement, he asks. “Oh? And what’s it called.”

Stiles is stony faced. “Ass.”

Never one to be beaten, Peter knocks it back, and waits a beat before saying, “I’ve had better ass than yours.”

Pamela’s watching with interest, and Peter’s just about to turn his full attention back to her when yet again, he’s interrupted by Stiles, horrible little gremlin that he is. “You’re so lucky you’re at this writing course and not some of the others that are around,” Stiles tells Pamela, all sincerity and big eyes that Peter doesn’t believe for a second. “Peter’s a _ real live _ bestselling author.”

“Oh, I know,” she breathes out. “_Love, Eternal _is the best thing I’ve ever read. He’s so talented.”

Peter doesn’t know whether to preen or beat his head on the bartop. Stiles leans in close, elbows on the bar in a distinctly unprofessional manner, and tells Pamela in an undertone, “Some of these things though, they’re run by hacks who’ve barely published a poetry collection. And not only do they overcharge for awful advice,” his eyes flicker to Peter just for a second, “but a lot of them try and get their students into bed.”

Peter counts to ten, biting his tongue. He has a persona to uphold, and punching interfering barmen doesn’t fit his image. Stiles continues blithely, “Of course I’m sure Mr. Hale would never do such a thing. He’d never risk his reputation. Isn’t that right?” He directs this last at Peter with a cocked eyebrow. 

Dammit. 

“Of course not. I’m all about releasing the creative spirit, nothing more.” Peter hopes Stiles slips in a puddle of tequila and pokes his eye out with a paper umbrella. 

“So the sessions in your room…?” Pamela bats her eyelashes. 

“Purely to write, I assure you. Perhaps we’d best not though, now that I’ve been reminded of how it might look,” he says through gritted teeth. 

She lets out a tiny disappointed noise, and taking her drink, slips off the stool and wanders away. Peter’s given a great view of the ass that he’s not getting to tap as she goes. 

Stiles’s voice is close in Peter’s ear. “Awww, did the famous writer not get to seduce his student? Going to bed all alone? ” He absolutely _oozes _ false sympathy, the little fucker.

“No thanks to you,” Peter snaps. “Now do your damn job and get me a drink.”

“Of course, Mr. Hale, sir. One drink coming right up.” It barely takes thirty seconds for Stiles to come back with a creamy golden concoction. “Here. I think you’ll like this.”

“And what’s this one called? The Interfering Help? Because that seems like it’d be right up your alley. Or, no, wait, is it a Cockblock?” Peter knows he looks petty and doesn’t care, just this once.

Stiles just pushes the glass closer and leans in. He waits until Peter has a mouthful of the infuriatingly good cocktail to speak. “Cock _ sucking _ cowboy.” He pronounces the name slowly, deliberately. “It’s a personal favorite of mine.”

Peter chokes on his drink, and Stiles cackles before turning to serve the rest of the Barbs, leaving Peter red-faced and sputtering.

When the goddamn cockblocking asshole looks Peter in the eye while sipping his water through a penis-shaped straw, Peter decides that he hates him. Hates him, and kind of wants to punch him. Or kiss him. Possibly test out whether he has any cowboy heritage he can put to use. Or something.

*** 

Peter slams the infuriating little fuck against the door of his hotel room, kissing that smart mouth just so it won’t say anything and ruin what has the potential to be a night of fantastic hatesex. Luckily, Stiles goes with it, one hand tangling in Peter’s hair as the other slides under his shirt to stroke his stomach just above the belt buckle. Peter pulls back long enough to strip out of the shirt entirely, and luckily Stiles is on-board, and has already gotten naked. 

He hauls the lithe body up into his arms, just to dump him on the bed. Stiles laughs. “C’mon, then, hotshot. Show me why I shouldn’t just let Krystal keep you company.” 

Peter growls, and goes to town on the body under him, kissing and grabbing, biting and bruising and sucking until Stiles shudders and comes with a little cry. “That’s why,” he pants. “Now, how do you thank me?” 

He’s treated to a sly smile. “Oh, gee, I don’t know.” Stiles rolls over and squirms until his head is hanging off the bed. “Maybe like this?” 

And, well. Peter isn’t the kind of man to turn down an offer like that, so he obliges. Just as he works up a good rhythm upon learning that Stiles doesn’t have a pesky gag reflex, he hears what sounds like a knock at the door. “Do you hear that?” 

Stiles pouts. “Are you kidding me right now? Come on, Peter. Come down my throat. Unless,” he flashes a smirk, “you’d rather come on my face.” 

So Peter ignores the strange sound, and spills down that perfect throat. He’s content to stay right where he is, tingly and sated and gently humping the soft warmth of Stiles’s face, but he hears his name being shrieked, so he jerks upright. 

“What?” he grunts, confused about why he’s under the blankets. When did they get under the blankets? 

“PETER! OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW!” 

He stumbles out of bed and pulls on the hotel robe before cracking the door. He doesn’t want anyone on the other side to see Stiles. “What’s going on?” 

He blinks bleary eyes, and sees none other than Krystal. Sweet bouncing baby Buddhas. What in the everliving fuck did he do to deserve this? She doesn’t answer, shouldering her way into his room and waking him up as efficiently as an intravenous espresso. “You can’t—” 

“Don’t tell me _ can’t_, Peter.” She whirls to face him, and he looks behind her but doesn’t see Stiles. Maybe he’s hiding? Krystal goes on, “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, leading me on only to flirt with other women in front of me! Were you trying to make me jealous? Because I _ know _you didn’t fuck Pam.” 

Not Pam, no. He darts a look at the floor, and notices a conspicuous lack of hotel uniform on it. He slips a hand inside his robe, and feels the band of his underwear. 

The fact that it’s cold and sticky with come tells him everything he needs to know, and makes him impatient to just be done with the trainwreck happening in front of him. “Look, Krystal. I never led you on. We slept together a couple times, and it was fun. I never promised you more than that. I never agreed to anything else. _ You _showed up to this event convinced that we were going to sleep together, and started acting like a jealous cat every time someone else indicated interest.” 

She bites her lip, and tears start to well up. Even if Peter wasn’t completely out of patience with her, he doesn’t believe that they’re real. Cora mastered crocodile tears when she was six. “I’ve never quite understood why you’ve chased me so hard when you’re married, anyway. If I’d known that at the time, I probably wouldn’t have agreed in the first place.” 

(He absolutely, unequivocally would have, but he thinks this might be the tack that gets her to finally leave him alone.) 

He’s not prepared to see her shoulders hunch and curl inwards as she crosses her arms across her chest. Not ready for her head to bow and her voice to drop to a soft murmur. “It’s a marriage of convenience, really.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” 

Krystal shrugs, refusing to meet his gaze. “My husband, he’s old money. Conservative family. He couldn’t tell them he was gay, but he was at least honest with me about things.” 

It’s. Peter doesn’t know what to say. He needs coffee. Where’s waiter-boy when Peter actually needs him? 

Krystal keeps talking like she can’t tell she’s giving him a crisis. “He doesn’t care who I sleep with, because he’s got a boyfriend on the side, too. I don’t know how serious they are, because I don’t really want to know.” She tips her head then, glancing up at him and her mouth pulls into a self-deprecating grin. “I just. You wanted me. And I—” 

“—you wanted more of it,” Peter finishes, rubbing his face. A fucking _ wet dream _and messy, unwanted emotions before coffee. The universe hates him and he did nothing to deserve this. This is oh-so-not-Peter’s-fault. He sighs. “While I understand why you’ve been,” he gestures, because there really aren’t words for attacking him nipple-rings-first, “the fact is, I’m not a good fit for you. What you need is someone to appreciate you every weekend, not twice a year.” 

She drops her head, staring at the carpet, but nods. “I guess I just...wanted you to be that person?” 

He looks at her incredulously, and she laughs a little, seeing it. 

“I know, I know. I get it now, I just.” She sighs wistfully, looking out the window. “Being in your bed was something else, okay? You can’t blame a girl for wanting more.” 

“And I don’t. What I can blame a girl for is not wanting to take ‘no’ for an answer.” 

Krystal grimaces. “Ugh, I guess I deserve that. It just sounds so awful.” 

Much like this conversation. “Mm. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to shower and find coffee, and you need to go set up an account on Ashley Madison.” 

She grins at that, looking like the Krystal he’s used to, but a little softer, somehow. “Yeah. Okay. Maybe I will.” Her lips linger against his cheek for a moment. “Bye, Peter.” 

And then she’s gone, and he’s just left with the indignity of peeling his boxer-briefs off and hoping he doesn’t accidentally give himself a Brazilian in the process. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twist: I would just like to repeat our previous warning against drinking liquids whilst reading. A couple of commenters have also advised against reading this in public. Your choices are, of course, your own, but please do let us know if we ought to add you to the Spit-Take Tally :P

It’s heinously early, but Peter knows there’s no sense trying to go back to sleep. He’d only be able to squeeze in another hour at most, and with the way this weekend is going, he’d wind up dreaming about being pursued by a horde of sexually frustrated Barb-shaped beasts. So he showers and dresses before heading down to the kitchen because he knows Derek will be there, and Derek will serve him perfect espresso and listen to him bitch about his weekend. But as he approaches the old style swing doors, it sounds like someone’s beaten him to it. 

“—such a fucking _ waste_, Der!” Stiles’s voice comes floating out the door, followed by a non-committal hum from his nephew. Peter wonders whose life Stiles is ruining now. Probably someone who took his parking spot. But then he hears, “It’s true what they say—never meet your heroes. Peter Hale, bestselling author, my ass. How can he live with himself, milking those poor women out of their money with his sleazy grin and pretty face? What the hell happened?”

Peter gets caught on the word _ sleazy_. Really? He’ll have to watch that. It won’t do his reputation any favors to come across as sleazy. But then his brain latches on to the rest of what Stiles is saying. “God, the things I could do if I had one tenth of his abilities. But instead of writing, he squanders his talent, sits around here in that fucking jacket with the patches and his poet shirts and flirts for money. I’ll say it again: it’s a fucking _ waste. _He should be writing.”

Derek says, “He has his reasons. _ Love, Eternal _was—”

“Oh my _ god, _ don’t even mention that crap in the same room as me. It’s utter shit, and you know it!”

Which, of course, it _ is_, but who the fuck is _ Stiles _ to judge it? 

Peter had written most of _ Love, Eternal _ alternately staring down the barrel of a looming deadline, and staring down the necks of a series of bottles of cheap vodka. Over the course of eight weeks, desperate to break through his first-ever case of writer’s block with his publishers breathing down his neck for his contracted new release, he’d banged out the most trope-riddled pile of angst and sentimentality he could come up with, just to prove to himself he could produce something, anything, even if it was patently terrible. He’d sent it in purely to fulfill his obligations, expecting a harsh rejection note and to be left in peace, but instead they’d called gushing over his new style, making noises about a rush release and the Christmas market, and he could hardly tell them it was a joke, not when they had the cover half-designed and his advance was in the mail. 

Derek knows the story. Derek had, in fact, laughed for a solid hour when he found out. So when Peter hears, “Actually, funny story—” he pushes the door open with enough force to make it bang loudly and claps his hands together.

“So, nephew! Coffee? And a decent omelet today, I think. Yesterday’s was criminal, and I expect you to make up for it.” He turns as if he’s just noticed Stiles. “Here early to set up? Good, the ladies will probably need double the mimosas today. They’ll be reading their work aloud, and that’s always interesting, to say the least.”

Derek’s mouth snaps shut, and Peter nods to himself. Crisis averted. He can only imagine the scorn Stiles would heap on him if he actually heard the real story about that damned book.

As he watches Stiles walk out, he admires the swing of those lean hips, and wonders when he started to care what a goddamned _ waiter _ thought of him.

*** 

Peter fronts up at his Sunday morning class ready to go head to head with Stiles, because Stiles is an asshole who’s made his opinions about Peter very clear, and Peter is not going to let him win. He’s also not going to let himself be distracted by that very vivid dream he had last night. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s his lizard brain. It’s not Peter’s fault that evolution hasn’t given it the nuance to tell the difference between the people he’d like to punch and the people he’d like to fuck. The adrenaline feels the same, right? It’s a flaw in the design, thank you, not a _ personal _ flaw. If anyone is to blame, it’s god or science, depending on your view. The important thing is, it’s not his fault.

Peter went to therapy once. It didn’t take.

The point is, he strides into the Willow Room at 9 am on Sunday prepared to shut Stiles down before he even starts, because today is the day that his writers share their work, and as surprisingly insightful as Stiles was yesterday, the last thing Peter needs is the mouthy little shit cutting down his ladies’ efforts. That wouldn't be good for return business. 

“More coffee, Mr. Hale?” Stiles asks him brightly, pressing one into his surprised hands. 

Stiles is being helpful. Why is Stiles being helpful? Peter doesn’t trust it. But he takes his coffee with a suspicious nod of thanks, and his gaze falls on the stack of saucers. Stiles darts forward and plucks one up, passing it over to him. 

Peter takes it, squinting at him. There’s a corner of a napkin sticking out of Stiles’s shirt pocket like the world’s cheapest pocket square. And another, Peter notices, had been shoved haphazardly into the pocket of his pants. 

His rather tight black pants. 

“Be honest,” he says in an undertone. “Are you stealing napkins?” 

Stiles flushes, but rolls his eyes. “Yes. Yes, I’m stealing napkins that are worth half a cent each.” 

“Half a cent?” Peter asks. 

“I don’t know! I don’t buy the napkins!” 

“No,” Peter says. “You just steal them, right?” 

Stiles snorts, and for a moment it’s almost like they’re sharing a joke. Peter’s not sure how that happened. He’s pretty sure Stiles was supposed to be the butt of the joke instead. 

He wanders toward his chair, glancing back in time to see Stiles shoving his napkins more deeply into his pockets. 

What a little weirdo. Really, he has no right to be so attractive. 

Peter shakes his head to dislodge that thought. He needs to get laid, stat, if he’s thinking about Laura’s pet annoyance that way. 

But the exchange has mellowed the sharper edges of his mood, since he came down here expecting a fight and didn’t get one, and his smile isn’t entirely feigned as all his ladies file in. It’s their last day together, and Peter thinks he might even miss them occasionally. That unexpected fondness evaporates about halfway through Barb’s reading—she’s chosen a particularly racy excerpt of her manuscript, where the pastor and his assistant accidentally touch hands—but Peter’s too much of a professional to look anything other than entranced. 

And the story isn’t _ technically _ terrible. Barb knows where to put all the punctuation. It’s just terrible in literally every other conceivable way. Not that Peter’s judging. He once wrote a bestseller that way. It doesn’t make it any less painful to read, though. 

He does what he always does: plasters on a smile, perseveres, and thinks of Alaska. 

***

Sunday evening rolls around with a dip in temperature and corresponding dip in Peter’s mood. There isn’t enough alcohol in the _ world _ to get him through the final event of the weekend: the book signing. He’s endured a full day of his ladies, with half of them hanging around all afternoon to ask him actual questions about how to improve their writing, something he blames Stiles for after he made an offhand suggestion when they were breaking for lunch._“Shame you ladies can’t skip your pamper packages and take advantage of Peter being here.” _They were all thrilled at the idea and clamored after Peter, asking if they could, and he’d been forced to tell them he’d be delighted. Stiles had just grinned from where he was polishing glasses, the smug little git. Peter didn’t even get his afternoon nap.

The fact that he’s not allowed to drink during the signing itself is just heaping insult on top of injury. So he does his level best to be absolutely sloshed before putting on his elbow-patch jacket writer persona and going downstairs. 

It’s definitely the right call. This event is open to the public, and he would’ve thought by now that everyone had outgrown or gotten bored of the _ Love, Eternal _ hype, but he’s proven wrong by the line out the door to see the Local Boy Made Good. Peter wants to run screaming profanities when he sees it, but instead he takes a deep breath, conjures a smile, and takes his seat. 

The next three hours are hell. His ladies are practically angels when he signs their copies—whether because two days in his presence has desensitized them to the glow of his fame, or because they’re at the front of the line and graced with booze-halos, he’s not sure. Whatever the reason, he smiles and gives vaguely interested hums to the endless, simpering horde that comes after them, wishing that one of them, just one, asked or talked about anything but _ Love, Eternal_. What he’d give to sign a copy of _ Evil’s Grace_, or _ The Size is All That Matters_. 

Instead, he sips water and signs copy after copy of that goddamned book as he gets progressively more sober. It’s an intensely unpleasant experience, but it’s the last trial of the weekend retreat. If he can just get through this, then everyone will pack up and clear out, and he’ll have all of Monday to sleep in and bitch to Laura before flying out on Tuesday morning. If he can just get through—he checks his watch as he hands the latest copy of _ Love, Eternal _ back to its owner—another half hour, then he’s done. 

His eyes close in relief at the thought, and when he opens them, another book’s been laid on the table. 

The first thing he notices is that it’s not a copy of _ Love, Eternal_. The second is that it’s actually _ By Dark of Moon_, his favorite out of all the things he’s ever written, and the least known. It’s been out of print for years. Peter feels like the air’s been sucked out of his lungs. He reaches for the book, murmuring, “Where did you get this?” 

The last voice he expects to hear replies, “It was my mom’s.”

Peter’s head snaps up to see Stiles’s infuriating face, and there’s probably no excuse for the rage that fills him at the sight, but he’ll blame the relative sobriety. “I see. And you’re, what? Getting it signed for her?” It’s petty, he _ knows _ it’s petty, but this fucking boy has been a thorn in his side since he got here and _ he does not care _ how it looks anymore. Not when he’s being given the thing he supposedly-wants most in the most awful way possible.

Stiles’s face does something strange at that, something Peter’s never seen it do. When he speaks, his voice is low and even. “I used to take it to the hospital and read it to her when she was dying. Even when she couldn’t remember who I was, she enjoyed that book. It gave me a way to spend time with her even when she wasn’t _ her _anymore.” 

It’s a brutal gut-punch that Peter doesn’t deserve. Worse, it makes him feel like an asshole. He opens his mouth to say something, though he has no idea what to say in the face of that, but Stiles keeps right on going. 

“And I was young, too young to understand everything it was saying about masculinity and relationships and marriage back then, but I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve re-read it over the years. It made me fall in love with your writing, and gave me a way to remember my mom—she loved that book, and was always talking about how she couldn’t wait to see if you’d write a sequel for it one day.” 

Peter thinks that he’s forgotten how to breathe.

Stiles eyes are dark and serious and just a little bit incriminating. “I had to wait until my shift was over to get that out of my locker and wait in line, so if you could just sign it for me, that’d be great.” 

Peter swallows hard, and nods. He flips the book open, and stops when he sees writing on the inside cover. _ For my dearest Claudia _ is scrawled in black ink. Peter looks up at Stiles. 

“My dad gave it to her.” 

Peter nods and picks up his pen. “Who do you want me to make it out to?” 

Stiles’s brow furrows and he nibbles his lip for a moment. “Make it out to her. We both know you can’t stand me.” 

Peter bites his tongue on the retort he wants to make, because really, this boy has a god-given talent for making him feel like a heel. As he goes to sign it, his hand slides, and the pages bulge, revealing more ink. Peter can’t help his curiosity, so he flips through, and sees that the book is thoroughly marked-up. 

Dead mom and potential assholery be damned, Peter’s about to tear a strip off this heathen for scribbling all over his books when he realizes what the notes _ say_. 

“_But every time I wonder if I’m about to make a mistake, I try to think of my life without her in it, and feel like ice-cold hands have folded around my heart, squeezing. It’s not that I can’t picture life without her in it—it’s that I can, and never want to encounter the reality_” is underlined, and in the margin, in neat, looping script, is one word. _ John_. Below that, in a similarly loopy, but much messier hand, _ definitely Dad_. 

Peter’s chest is tight and there’s a lump in his throat. Of all the things he expected to have to cope with this weekend, having a genuine emotion wasn’t on the list. He’s not sure if he should be thanking Stiles, or demanding Laura fire him. He’ll definitely be drinking some more when he gets back to his suite.

For the moment, however, he signs the book, keeping it simple. _ To Claudia & son_, _ Peter Hale. _

When Peter slides it back across the table, he realizes there’s a hotel napkin stuck to the back. Peeling it off the paperback and handing it over with a smaller, halfway-to-real smile, he sees that it’s a scrawled mess of notes about eight point plans, climaxes and reversals, and falling action. By the time he connects the dots and realizes Stiles is the one who’s been taking notes on napkins, the little hellion in question is gone. 

Peter cranes his neck to try to see where he’s gone—his heart beating fast, his skin prickling and some unnameable thing rising in his chest that might be anticipation—but there’s already another beaming woman bearing down on him, a pristine copy of _ Love, Eternal _ clutched in her hands. 

*** 

“I didn’t fly out all the way out here to be given attitude by the hired help,” Peter grouses. 

Derek hums, sliding a beer across the table. 

The book signing is finally over, and the room is empty except for the two of them. Derek proved himself Peter’s favorite all over again by showing up with a six-pack as soon as the last fan vacated the resort. 

“I didn’t come here to be judged by a _ waiter!”_

“Uh huh,” Derek grunts again, and pops the cap off his own beer. 

“A _ waiter__!”_ Peter spits. 

At that, Derek gives him judgemental eyebrows. Peter’s been seeing them his whole life, but they’re more effective than ever. Possibly because Derek isn’t waist-high anymore. “Peter, what were you before you left Beacon Hills?” 

“That’s different!” Peter insists, narrow-eyed and prickly. Derek’s supposed to agree with him. “My parents owned this place!” 

“What were you?” Derek repeats, steady as a rock. 

That’s it. Derek’s not his favorite anymore. Peter hates him, and everyone, and the whole world too. They can all get drunk and fall off a cliff. 

“I was a waiter,” he grumbles. He takes a swig of his beer. “But, firstly, that was not my choice, and I’m a successful author now. I’m rich, and I live in a fancy house, and people _ love _ me and people love my book. Who the hell is he to mock me for that?” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “Peter, you hate that book. You mock it, and yourself, all the time.” 

“That’s different. I’m _ allowed_.” 

Derek exhales slowly. “Listen, you need to get your head out of your ass, stop throwing tantrums, and just tell Stiles you like him, or I’m going to call in the big guns.” 

“Who? Laura?” Peter snorts, because what’s his niece going to do? Be extra chipper at him in the morning? 

Derek’s smile turns wolfish. “Nope. _ Mom_.” 

Peter’s blood runs cold. His older sister is an absolute terror, and he only decided to submit his first published book to spite her, because she wanted him to be ‘_realistic’ _ and work at their parents’ resort until he either found some success or gave up his so-called hobby. If Derek tattles that Peter has a crush, he’ll never hear the end of it. “You _ wouldn’t dare_.” 

“Try me,” Derek retorts.

“Who says I even like him?” Peter challenges. “You’re making assumptions.”

Derek shakes his head. “If you didn’t like him, you wouldn’t be so annoyed that he hasn’t swooned at your patented charm, and you wouldn’t give a shit what he thought. You’re just sulking because he didn’t fall to his knees and worship you.”

Peter’s silent, because Derek’s right, and he hates it.

Derek sighs again. “Look, why are you so defensive about this? Because, my god! You finally met someone who hates the book you hate, loves the book you think of as your baby, and is as much of an asshole as you are. You’re perfect for each other. So what’s the problem? And why are you bitching to me about it?” 

Peter nurses his beer and muses on that. Derek lets him stew in silence as he thinks about the fact that Stiles called him a scam artist. Which, to be fair, isn’t entirely inaccurate. Stiles hates _ Love, Eternal _ —which just shows his good taste, as far as Peter’s concerned. And Stiles loves _ By Dark of Moon_. 

Except he doesn’t _ just _ love it. He has a profound emotional connection to it. Jesus, Peter can’t even remember the last time someone told him they’d _ read _it, let alone that it resonated with them deeply enough to re-read multiple times in the years since it was published. 

The problem, Peter realizes, is that he feels _ exposed_. Stiles has seen him, and he wasn’t ready for that, wasn’t prepared for anyone to know him for anything but _ Love, Eternal_. And, instead, he’s been seen and therefore known, and being known that intimately is a terrifying thing. There’s a line something like that in _ By Dark of Moon_. It was true when Peter wrote it, and it’s true now. 

“I don’t know,” he tells Derek, stomach clenching at the lie. “I don’t know.” 

Unfortunately, Derek isn’t fooled. “His Jeep broke down last week, so he’s been catching a ride back to town with Isaac. Isaac’s shift doesn’t end for another twenty minutes, so he’ll be around somewhere, waiting.” Derek raises one of his judgy eyebrows. “Take a chance. I dare you.” 

Peter isn’t sure why he does it—he’s seized by some crazy emotion he can’t name and doesn’t want to—but he puts down his beer and goes running. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twist: And here is the end! It's been a wild, _wild_ ride, thank you for going on this journey with us.

Stiles isn’t in the kitchens. And he isn’t in the staff locker room, either. He also isn’t in the maintenance shed by the tennis court that Peter knows the younger members of staff hang out in to get high. Or at least they did when Peter worked here. 

He checks his watch, and curses. His twenty minutes have run out. 

It’s when he’s heading back inside, crossing the dark expanse of the parking lot, that Peter sees him: a lean, solitary figure sitting on the edge of one of the garden beds, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His face is illuminated by the glow of his phone screen. 

“Stiles!” Peter calls, and hurries toward him. 

Stiles looks up and flails backwards, looking spooked, and—right. They aren’t on the same page yet. Stiles wasn’t privy to Peter’s epiphany via unsympathetic nephew, and probably thinks he’s a dick, and also that this late-night meeting in the parking lot is another ugly confrontation. Maybe he thinks that Peter’s looking to capitalize on his last chance to punch Stiles in the face, and that’s why he’s come running. Which, to be fair to both of them, sounds a lot like Peter, and probably happens to Stiles a lot. 

“Stiles,” Peter murmurs, holding up both hands, palms out. “Please wait.” 

Stiles stares up at him guardedly. “Can I help you?” It’s said sarcastically, grudgingly, and is probably a byproduct of his job, but it’s an opening and Peter will take it. 

“It’s come to my attention,” Peter says, “that you are a person and you have feelings, and—no, wait, that didn’t come out right.” 

Stiles’s jaw drops for a second before he recovers, gesturing to himself. “Wow, you mean I’m a real live boy? Well golly gee, mister!” Peter would be entertained if he wasn’t trying to Have A Moment here.

“Let me retry that.” Peter wishes he hadn’t drunk that beer. Or that he’d drunk a lot more of them. He rushes on before Stiles walks away or worse. “Look, I know you think I don’t like you, and that’s because you’re an incredibly annoying person, _ but– _ ” He holds up a finger. “You were right, and I’m an asshole. That’s an explanation, not an excuse, by the way. I’m an asshole. I’m jaded and cynical, and once upon a time I actually wrote something _ good_, and nobody read it.” 

Stiles’s expression does something that doesn’t flatter Peter’s belief that he’s a wordsmith. He thinks that maybe he should get back to smithing words on the regular again, before shaking his head. He can question his life choices later, once Stiles has gone. 

“Nobody read it,” Peter says again. “I poured my soul into _ By Dark of Moon_, and nobody read it. Do you know the advice my agent gave me about it? ‘You need to grow thicker skin, Peter.’ So I did. And maybe I went a little overboard on that, but then I wrote this absolute piece of shit that everybody loves, and it’s trite and it’s cliche and do you even know what it feels like to know that’s the thing I’ll be remembered for?” 

Stiles wrinkles his nose. 

“And now I’m complaining about success,” Peter sighs, dragging a hand over his face. “See? Asshole.” 

Stiles’s mouth quirks at that. “I see.” 

Peter takes the almost-smile as encouragement. “So I’m an asshole who hates his own success, and milks wannabe writers out of thousands of dollars on weekends like this. And I thought that I was okay with that, even withstanding the occasional mouthy little turd of a waiter, but then, Stiles, it turned out that you read my book. The one that meant something to me. You...” He swallows. “You _ saw _ me, and you didn’t like what you saw. And... and I’m sorry, I think. I’m _ sorry_. Is this how you apologize? I’m out of practise.” 

“It’s going pretty well,” Stiles says, more softly than Peter has ever heard from him. He waves his hand in a ‘continue’ gesture. 

“Ah.” Peter pauses. “I think I was done?” 

Stiles throws his head back and laughs, the sound bright and ringing in the dark parking lot. The moonlight catches on his throat. “You really are out of practise, yeah. Like, I appreciate the apology, but dude, if you really feel that way, why did you go out of your way to be an ass?” 

Peter grimaces. He’s never liked explaining himself, which might be why he avoids apologizing as often as he can. Fruit baskets are so much easier. “I... wasn’t ready to face the implications. You were being honest. I’m not used to that, anymore. I’m so used to my earlier books being completely ignored that it never occurred to me that you might’ve been a fan.” 

Stiles pauses, head cocked, as he stares. Peter tries his best not to fidget. “Yeah, okay. Apology accepted, I guess.” 

Riding the wave of relief hearing that brings, Peter asks, “Are you working tomorrow?” 

Stiles shakes his head. “Nah, my days off are Monday and Tuesday, since I worked through the weekend.” He hesitates. “Since we’re being halfway honest, I’m only here because I asked Laura if I could get in on your workshop. I normally just bartend, but I kind of kept at her 'til she gave in, because I wanted to meet you, maybe learn a thing or two. And when you weren’t what I was expecting, I was kind of a dick about it.”

Peter can’t help but laugh. “No wonder you were so terrible. Derek was right. You’re just as much of an asshole as I am.”

Stiles tilts his head, and the corners of his mouth quirk up.”I dunno. You’ve set the bar pretty high, Professor Adverb.” 

Peter pokes his tongue out, and goes back to the matter at hand. “Can I tempt you to come in tomorrow anyway, even though it’s your day off?” 

Stiles’s eyes narrow, and he waves at someone over Peter’s shoulder. When Peter turns, he sees Isaac heading this way. “That depends. What am I coming in for?” 

“Coffee,” Peter says, and then rethinks that. “Lunch. Dinner?” 

Stiles fixes him with that dead-on narrow look. “I’m not your manic pixie dream boy, Peter. I’m not anybody’s manic pixie dream boy.” 

“I know that,” Peter says, more impressed than ever with Stiles. He’s smart. Too smart to be the stock character or cheap trope in someone else’s autobiography. “I don’t need you to validate me—I have my own ego for that—or ease me through a midlife crisis. That’s what Shelby 1000 Cobras are for. I have _ two_.” 

Stiles snorts. “Of course you do.” 

“What I would like,” Peter says, pressing on before Isaac can reach them, “is to share some time with an attractive young man with a sharp mind and strong opinions, who hopefully thinks the same about me.” 

“Well, you’re not young,” Stiles says, and ouch, okay, but Peter deserves that. Probably. He hums thoughtfully. “But you are attractive, and you’re certainly sharp.” He shrugs. “But no can do. I have plans with my dad tomorrow.” 

“Oh.” Peter is surprised at the depth of his disappointment. 

“So if we’re going to have coffee, it’ll have to be tonight,” Stiles says, and flashes him a grin like he knows exactly what a little shit he is for teasing Peter like that. He raises his voice. “Isaac? Thanks, but Peter’s going to drop me back into town later.” 

Peter doesn’t remember volunteering for that at all, but it is, he supposes, a price he’s more than willing to pay.

*** 

The coffee shop is closed when they go back inside the hotel. So is the bar. Which only leaves one option. 

“I don’t want to know,” Derek announces as he delivers their room service. 

“Clearly you do, or you would have sent somebody else up with this,” Peter tells him with a smirk. 

Stiles, sitting on the end of Peter’s bed, grins and waves at Derek. 

Derek’s mouth quirks, which, coming from him, is the same as a full-throated laugh. “I made you the house platter.” 

Peter raises his eyebrows at the tray. “The house platter has curly fries? What sort of establishment are you running here? A Denny’s?” 

“Oh, man, curly fries!” Stiles bounces up from the bed and comes forward to grab one. “You’re the best, Derek!” 

Derek rolls his eyes, still stubbornly fighting a smile—he's been doing that since he was a toddler—and closes the door behind him when he leaves. 

For the first few minutes, they eat in companionable silence. It’s been hours since Peter last ate, and he doesn’t doubt that it’s the same for Stiles. He remembers what it was like to work here, that the hours were long and wretched.

The silence lasts until they’ve both eaten their burgers and moved onto their fries, and Stiles finally asks. “Okay, so what the hell was the story with _ Love, Eternal? _Because it’s not anything like your other books. And I don’t believe for a second there was a lost love. You’re not the type to pine.”

Peter considers lying for all of about five seconds, of telling Stiles the novel was simply a stylistic choice, but pauses, looking at him for a long moment. Stiles has his legs draped over the arm of the chair, sprawled there with a curly fry dangling out of his mouth, and Peter decides to hell with it, Stiles seems like he’d actually appreciate the truth.

“I had writer’s block and had to come up with something to fulfil my contract,” he says bluntly. “I sent it in expecting them to trash it, but then the damn thing got popular.”

Stiles’s eyes widen, and the fry drops out of his open mouth. “You’re kidding me.”

Peter sighs. “I wish I was. It was just my bad luck to have a talented agent and a passable author photo, and hit the market at the right time, in a year Sparks didn’t have a novel out.” 

Stiles is up and off the chair in seconds, and Peter finds himself being kissed hungrily. “Oh, thank god,” Stiles breathes when he lets go of Peter’s lapels and is free to speak. “My self-respect won’t let me sleep with anyone who thought that book was anything but utter crap.”

And then he’s kissing Peter again, climbing into his lap on the couch, and Peter wants nothing more than to enjoy his lapful of willing boy—his dick’s certainly taken an interest in this turn of events—but he has to ask, “Stiles, what’s going on here?” 

Stiles leans back, and there’s uncertainty in those bright eyes. Peter hates it, so he runs his hands up the broad back in a way he hopes is reassuring. “I mean. You’re hot, and smart when you’re not pretending _ Love, Eternal _ was the highlight of your career. You’re my type, and,” he looks down, one shoulder coming up as his mouth pulls into a deprecating half-smile and he darts a glance at Peter’s face, “I felt like we had chemistry?” 

Peter leans in and kisses those tantalizing lips, but doesn’t let himself get lost in it, because he’s learned his lesson, thank you, Krystal. “Oh, we do, and I’m more than happy to blow your mind,” he smirks. Stiles snorts, and it helps break the weird tension that’s cropped up between them. “I just need to know what it is you want from me.” He tries not to get his hopes up, because he’s old enough to know better. He lives on the other side of the country, is significantly older, and has a demonstrable penchant for one-night stands. Despite all of that, he’ll take what he can get, whatever Stiles is willing to give him. 

“I, uh, maybe didn’t think that part through?” Stiles grins and bats his lashes. 

“Then I think,” Peter says slowly, letting his hands roam over the lithe, fully-clothed body, “that we should take it slow.” 

Stiles squirms a little and gives him a disbelieving look. “Are you shitting me right now? You were ready to go to bed with Pamela and you’d barely met her!” 

Peter refuses to be ashamed of himself. That’s for lesser beings. “Yes, and we both knew that it was going to be a one-time thing. I don’t have a problem with casual sex, but everyone needs to be on the same page about it.” 

“Huh.” Stiles leans in and kisses him again, deep and slow, and it tests his resolve not to drag this stubborn, infuriating, enchanting creature to bed. “Thank you.” 

He’s missed something. That, or there’s too much blood in his cock and not enough in his brain. “For what, sweetheart?” 

Stiles kisses along his jaw. “For not immediately taking advantage of my impulsiveness?” 

Peter twines his fingers in that thick, windswept hair, and tugs until Stiles is looking at him. “I won’t pretend that I’m not interested, Stiles. I’ll take you to bed right now if that’s what you want. You just have to tell me that.” 

Stiles nibbles his bottom lip for a moment. “I’m not, um. More kissing? Please?” 

And, well. It’s not the enthusiastic ‘_yes, take me, Peter! _’ he’d hoped for, but there are much worse ways to spend an hour than making out with a pretty, doe-eyed boy. 

So he leans back in, and kisses Stiles slowly, like they have all the time in the world, letting his hands roam over the delicious body in his lap. The little gasp he swallows when he kneads Stiles's ass is particularly sweet, and he can't stop his own hips from rolling up, seeking the weight and friction of Stiles's body. It brings him into contact with the bulge in Stiles’s jeans, and apparently that impulsiveness is catching, because Peter doesn’t quite know how they went from heated kisses to grinding together frantically, but it happens. 

He’d be a liar if he said he wasn’t enjoying it. 

Stiles breaks their lip-lock, tilting his head back to pant at the ceiling, and Peter takes advantage of the opportunity to kiss and bite at the long, pinkened throat. The second his teeth sink into that supple flesh, Stiles jerks, babbling, “_Please _—Peter, I can’t—not in my jeans—” 

And it’s the easiest thing in the world to kiss his mole-spotted jaw, to murmur, “It’s alright, I’ve got you,” as Peter unzips him. But before he reaches inside, before he takes his beautiful boy in hand and crosses a line that can’t be uncrossed, he has to ask, “Are you s—”

“Oh my god, why aren’t you touching my dick?” 

Peter can’t help it—he chuckles. “Apologies,” he mutters, and then he rectifies his grievous error, dipping inside Stiles’s jeans and pulling him out, wrapping the long, flushed cock in a firm grip. He doesn’t tease, because the sweet thing is whimpering and gasping continuously as Peter squeezes and thumbs at the leaking head, but he hopes that there’ll be a next time where he can tease. Where he can draw it out, strip Stiles down and make that pale skin shine as Peter takes him close over and over again without letting him tip over. 

It’s a delicious thought, but the low, warbling groan Stiles lets out as he spills over Peter’s hand is even sweeter. Stiles shudders his way through orgasm, knees pressing tight to hips before he slumps against Peter’s chest, panting. 

Peter’s cock throbs, and he tries to get a hand between them, but Stiles mouths at the skin under his ear. “Let me?” 

And, well. Peter’s not going to say no to that. So he nods, and Stiles fumbles his zip open before sliding a hand down inside his jeans. He doesn’t bother pulling Peter out—which, granted, would be difficult given the way he’d tucked that morning and how little room there is with him fully hard—just cups Peter’s cock and squeezes as he nibbles at Peter’s bottom lip. 

He’s a little clumsy, and it’s far from the best handjob Peter’s ever gotten, but there’s something undeniably sweet about being pinned under the content slump of Stiles’s body and panting into that smart mouth as he’s coaxed to climax with a confident—if slightly uncoordinated—touch and shallow kisses. 

After coming with a sigh, they sit there for a long moment, still pressed together, Stiles’s hand inside his jeans, resting against his belly. Peter’s tempted to pass out right there, with Stiles a heavy, comforting weight in his lap and satisfaction settling in his bones, but the wet patch in his jeans is what eventually convinces him to move. He does _ not _want to be wearing these when the chafing sets in. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he nudges Stiles’s cheek with his nose. “We need to move.” 

“Nnnngh.” 

Peter snorts, because that’s eloquence right there. “I’m supposed to take you home, remember?” 

Stiles makes unhappy grumbling sounds and tries to burrow deeper into Peter’s shoulder. Adorably clingy little bastard. “Don’t wanna.” 

Well, in that case. “There’s a very comfortable bed right over there, if you’re interested.” 

Stiles hums, and it could mean anything. Peter wants it to mean ‘yes’. He doesn’t think he has the wherewithal to stand up and carry the lanky thing to bed, not after the day and orgasm he’s had. “Hey, sleepyhead,” he runs a hand up the side of Stiles’s shirt, ghosting over his ribs in a way that makes his bratty barman squirm. “You need to peel out of your clothes for bed.” 

Stiles sighs like making him move is a violation of the Geneva Convention, and shuffles to the side of Peter to fumble his shirt off. Despite his reluctance to unstraddle Peter, he doesn’t actually need help getting to the bathroom, or settling into the left side of the bed. He doesn’t complain when Peter slots up against his back, winding an arm around his waist. 

He does, however, speak up when Peter starts kissing his neck. “Sleep now, monkey business later. After coffee.” 

“Alright sweetheart,” Peter whispers, because those are terms he can agree to. 

***

Peter wakes up slowly, feeling over-warm and content. He’s not sure why he’s awake, and is about to drift back off when the body tucked against him moves, and he remembers last night—or rather, very early this morning. He looks down at the wild tufts of brown hair tucked under his chin, and smiles. 

It occurs to him that he can’t remember the last time he woke up with a warm body lying next to him, and he _ wasn’t _overcome by the urge to flee or toss them out the nearest exit. But waking up while Stiles snuffles beside him like a puppy dreaming of chasing rabbits is somehow endearing, or at least more amusing than it is annoying. He twitches like he’s got ants in his pants. Which is impossible, Peter knows, because Stiles isn’t actually wearing any pants. Stiles’s pants were a casualty of that wonderful impromptu handjob that Peter doesn’t regret in the least.

It didn’t occur to them last night that Stiles didn’t have a change of clothes. Although, as Peter sneaks a hand out and runs it down Stiles’s side, he can’t complain about waking up next to a beautiful naked man. The skin is warm and smooth under his touch, and he lets himself enjoy it, still smiling.

When he looks at the clock, Peter sees they need to get up, and murmurs his name. 

Stiles continues to be dead to the world. 

“Stiles,” Peter sing-songs, trailing his fingertips up the ladder of the boy’s ribs. “Time to wake up. Don’t make me tickle you.” 

Stiles mumbles something incoherent, and well. Peter did warn him, after all. He doesn’t do more than twitch his fingers against the boy’s stomach before Stiles shoots upright. When the dark eyes fix on his face, indignation colouring the fair cheeks, Peter leans in and drops a kiss on one mole-speckled cheek. “Morning.” 

“No, no, no, you do not get to be all cutesy and shit after tickling me awake!” 

Peter leans back on one arm, amused that _ that _counts as being tickled awake, and knowing he looks good with the blankets pooled around his waist. “I mean, I was waking you so that you would have time to shower and have breakfast with me, but if you’re not interested in that, then I guess—” 

Stiles makes a disgusted noise and flings the blanket over Peter’s head as he gets out and heads for the bathroom. Since Peter manages to fight his way free in time to catch a glimpse of a surprisingly bubbly butt, he’s not complaining.

He orders room service while Stiles takes the first shower, because Peter wasn’t invited to join him, and because he knows that if he does, Stiles will probably be late to whatever plans he has for today. To that end, as soon as Stiles emerges, wrapped in Peter’s hotel robe, he asks, “What time do you need to be back in town to meet with your father?” 

Stiles glances at the clock, and gnaws his lip for a moment. “We’ll need to leave at noon, if I’m gonna get back in time to get ready for him this afternoon.” 

It’s a little disappointing that he’ll only get another hour and a half of Stiles’s company, but he’ll make the most of it. Peter speeds through his own shower, and is pulling on fresh clothes when breakfast arrives. Stiles goes for coffee first, which Peter expects, but then hands him a perfect cup next, which he doesn’t. 

They’re quiet at first, focussed on caffeinating and filling their plates with breakfast pastries, but once on his second mug, Stiles breaks the silence. “So this is the life of a writer, huh?” He makes a ridiculous face and waves a hand. “Fancy resorts and room service!” 

“Not always.” Peter sips his coffee, and wonders where this is going. “You’re a writer too, aren’t you?” Stiles stares, and he huffs. “All your little napkin notes,” Peter explains. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. You write as well?” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “If ‘as well’ means ‘also’, not ‘at your level of talent’.” And then he snorts. “_Love, Eternal _notwithstanding, of course.” 

“Of course.” Peter leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “So.” 

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “So?” 

“Would you like me to read what you’ve written? Give you my professional opinion?” Peter asks. 

Stiles leans back in his chair, brow furrowed as he regards Peter thoughtfully. And then he shrugs. “No.” 

It’s a word Peter isn’t used to hearing. “No?” 

“I don’t want you to read anything. It’s not why I’m here.” 

“It isn’t?” Peter blinks at that, and takes another sip of his coffee. He’s not used to people not wanting things. Even the adoration—which he loves—so often comes with some level of expectation attached. Stiles is like a breath of fresh air Peter didn’t even know he needed until he filled his lungs with it. 

“I mean, it’s your day off, isn’t it?” Stiles asks, a smile tugging up the corners of his mouth. 

“It is indeed my day off,” Peter agrees, and nudges the pastries back towards Stiles.

“Nobody should have to work on their day off,” Stiles says. “Days off are for video games, movie marathons, and mini golf.” 

“Those all sound awful,” Peter teases. He’d happily do any or all of them to get more time with the delightful little asshole sitting across from him. 

“Excuse you!” Stiles laughs, relaxed and full-bodied. “If I didn’t have plans with my dad, I’d drag you out to mini golf _ right now_!” 

And the most ridiculous thing about that scenario, Peter discovers, is that he actually regrets it won’t happen. Warmth floods him. “Thank you.” The words come out much more softly than he intended. 

Stiles’s beautifully expressive face shows his confusion. “For what?” 

Peter cradles his coffee mug so he doesn’t reach out. “For this. For staying the night, and for breakfast, and threatening me with mini golf, when yesterday you couldn’t stand me.” And then, because he’s always been the guy who pushes it too far, he asks, “What changed?” 

Stiles turns wide brown eyes on him, and the corner of his mouth twitches up. “Couple of things. First, you made the effort to track me down and apologize, even though it nearly killed you.” He hesitates. “And your expression, when you picked up my copy of _By Dark of Moon. _ You fucking _ love _ that book, it was written all over your face. And I guess it made me want to know that guy better, the one who’s passionate enough to write something that powerful.” Stiles is staring at him, face open and vulnerable. And then he smiles, and a laugh bubbles out of him. “But as for what changed, it was mostly my point of view.” 

Peter raises his eyebrows questioningly. 

“Here I was, fixated on the annoying stranger who came to town,” Stiles says, his expression softening into something quiet and thoughtful, “when behind all that, there’s a man going on a journey. And it turns out he’s kind of an interesting man.” 

Peter opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. In the end he settles on, “In a stunning coincidence, it seems I’m in Beacon Hills for a little longer than I initially planned. I’m sure we can find time for mini golf while I’m here. If you wanted?” 

Stiles is still smiling when Peter eventually drops him off in town. 

Peter is too.

*** 

Peter stretches his stay to a week—he has nothing pressing to draw him away, and one rather delightful reason to stay, after all. Laura demands to know what she’s missing, but Peter doesn’t tell her. Let her stew, serve her right for sending him sub-par staff. Derek smirks and says nothing. And the old maintenance shed turns out to be an excellent spot to steal kisses from a bartender. 

He lingers for another few days after that, but then Laura informs him that his suite’s booked out and if he’s staying she’ll have to downgrade him to a single room, and there’s only so much Peter’s prepared to tolerate in order to extend a fling.

So he kisses Stiles goodbye and assures him he’ll be in touch, and it only stings his ego a little that Stiles doesn’t seem the least bit concerned that he’s leaving. Stiles shrugs. “We’ll Skype. You’ll write new stuff and send it to me. I’ll come visit.” As if it’s really that simple.

Perhaps it is.

After all, Peter tells himself, he’s barely known the boy two weeks. He can’t possibly miss him that much.

***

He lasts ten days. 

Stiles doesn’t help. He texts and calls—not often enough for Peter to think he’s pining, but exactly often enough that Peter can’t keep him out of his head. It’s almost as if he’s doing it on purpose. Peter texts back of course, but it’s not the same as seeing Stiles face-to-face. He opens a new document on his laptop every day for a week and stares at it for half an hour before closing it again. He blames Stiles for distracting him. Existing. Same thing.

In the end, he admits defeat. He cleans out his fridge, covers the furniture with dust cloths, locks the door, and buys a one-way ticket to Beacon Hills. Some would call it presumption. Peter prefers “optimism”. 

He calls Laura on the way to the airport, so she won’t have a chance to argue. “I’m heading your way. Got a room free for your favorite uncle?” 

“There’s a room, but it’s not for free. How long are you staying?” 

“Oh, you know,” Peter says, deliberately vague. 

Laura sighs. “I’m not giving you a suite this time, I don’t have the space. You can have a ground floor studio.”

“It’ll do, I suppose.”

“It’ll have to,” she informs him briskly, and hangs up.

He doesn’t call Stiles till after he’s landed, as he stands at the baggage carousel. “Hello sweetheart, free for dinner?” he croons. Stiles sounds much happier to hear from him that Laura was, and is, indeed, free for dinner, so Peter hires a car at the airport and heads to the resort. He spends longer than he probably should on his appearance before going downstairs to meet Stiles for their date.

Peter wonders briefly if it’s _ actually _ a date and then decides screw it—he’s calling it a date. He’d like to think they’ve moved on from a fling. Stiles must feel the same because he looks suspiciously tidy in pressed slacks and a collared shirt. It’s the first time Peter’s seen him in a shirt that’s not white and doesn’t have the Lakeview logo stitched over the pocket, and Stiles looks _ good. _

Peter takes him to a diner in town, purely because he doesn’t trust his family not to eavesdrop. It’s not that he’s nervous, per se, but it’s been a long time since he had any kind of emotional investment in a situation, and if he does, perchance, make a mess of this, he’d sooner Laura and Derek not be there to witness it. They order, and then Stiles sits back, arms crossed, and Peter tries not to get distracted by the corded muscles in his forearms and the way Stiles’s clever hands look wrapped around his biceps. He’s only partially successful.

“So, how come you’re back in town?” Stiles asks.

“I’m chasing my muse,” Peter says. Stiles gives him a curious look, and despite promises to himself that he’d play this cool, get the lay of the land, and above all, protect his heart, Peter finds himself blurting, “Apparently my muse is a cocky little shit of a barman who I missed far too much once I left town.”

The smile spreads slowly over Stiles’s face. “You missed me?” He looks stupidly pleased at Peter’s admission.

“Yes, Stiles, I missed you. I missed your terrible jokes and your smartass attitude. Nobody’s more shocked than me.”

Stiles uses his straw to jab at the clump of ice in his drink aggressively, his expression growing suddenly serious. “Cards on the table, Peter, okay?” 

Peter feels his stomach swoop. “Of course.” 

“I’m not your muse,” Stiles says. “Like, okay, that was possibly the most amazingly romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me, but I’m not your muse and I don’t want to be.” He tilts his head. “Did you write anything last week?” 

“Not as such, no.” 

“I can’t cure your writer’s block, Peter.” His voice softens. “I mean, I know you don’t mean the muse stuff literally, but if we’re together, in a relationship, then I do want to talk books and ideas and all of that stuff with you. I do. But I can’t be your inspiration, you know? I can’t be responsible for that.” 

Peter wonders if this is Stiles letting him down gently, and then realizes that no, of course it’s not. This is Stiles knowing who he is, and knowing who Peter is, and knowing—because he’s probably smarter than Peter—that there needs to be boundaries. This is Stiles saying that he wants to be in a relationship with Peter the person, not with Peter Hale, literary darling and author of _ Love, Eternal_. Because really, who would? Apart from the Barbs, but their opinions shouldn’t be trusted. 

“Cards on the table,” Peter echoes. “You are absolutely right, and I will never hold you responsible for my writing, or lack thereof. But at the same time, if we do this, I’m going to tell everyone in public that you _ are _ my muse, because it’s obnoxious and pretentious and I am very much both of those things.”

Stiles holds his gaze for a long moment, and then a grin spreads over his face. “You know what? That’s totally fair. We can be obnoxious and pretentious together and see how that works out.”

A line like that would never have made it into _ Love, Eternal. _

Peter loves it. 

***

It takes Peter eight months to finish his next novel. A lot of that eight months is taken up with not writing, though. A lot of it is spent hiking in the woods, and swimming in the lake, and doing more mundane things like grocery shopping. Grocery shopping shouldn’t be fun, but Stiles somehow makes it an adventure every time. Part of the eight months is also occupied with Peter finally moving out of the resort (after Laura threatens to start charging him market rates for his room and withdraws his room service privileges), and buying a cabin on the other side of the lake. Peter calls it a cabin, of course. Stiles maintains that nothing with a home theatre should actually be called a cabin, but he doesn’t complain when it’s Marvel movie night and he gets to invite all his friends over, does he? 

No, he doesn’t. 

They fly to New York for the book launch. Deucalion assures Peter that _ Sun After Rain _ will be a hit. Peter thinks perhaps he’s finally hit his stride with this one. It might have something to do with the fact that he actually _ likes _ what he wrote, and enjoyed writing it besides. Half the fun was in telling Stiles that he was finally creating a sequel to _ By Dark of Moon_, and then refusing to let the little hellion read any of the draft until he was done with the edits. As it is, Stiles’s flustered squawk of outrage when he finally gets to read the book’s dedication—_To Stiles, my real ‘Love Eternal’ _—is music to Peter’s ears. It’s a perfectly terrible line, an inside joke that’s just for them. Peter spends a good amount of time at the launch entertaining himself by introducing Stiles to everyone as his muse, just to see Stiles try not to burst out laughing. He’s not as practiced at being obnoxious and pretentious as Peter, but it’s a delight watching him try. 

It’s not the only book launch they attend. One of Peter’s Masterclass attendees has released a novel—Krystal, of all people. Once she stopped trying to seduce Peter with stream-of-consciousness erotica and took her writing seriously, it turns out she’s actually been paying attention in all those classes, and she stuns them all by turning out a genuinely good book.

It’s about teenage werewolves in a small California town. 

Deucalion predicts it’ll be a smash of Twilight proportions, and there’s already talk of a screenplay.

Peter also takes Stiles to lunch with Deucalion. Stiles isn’t finished his novel yet, but what he has finished is good. Really good. Stiles’s literary voice has a raw energy to it that Peter’s doesn’t, and Peter wants to help him share it with the world. A lunch meeting with Duke is a good place to start. 

He half expects Stiles to fall under the spell of New York’s literary scene, but Stiles is as eager to head home to Beacon Hills as Peter is, to their cabin, their friends, and their families. To long hours spent sitting on the back porch, tapping away at their respective laptops as the sun sets slowly over the lake. 

“Hey, Peter?” Stiles asks on the flight home. 

“Hmm?” 

Stiles curls toward him. “Are you doing another writers’ retreat this year?” 

Peter blinks suddenly. He never did get around to that Alaskan cruise, did he? “I hadn’t really thought about it. Why do you ask? Looking to pick up some extra shifts?” 

“Oh, hell no,” Stiles says. “But I was thinking, you know, if you were actually going to do it properly, that maybe I’d sign up as a student.” 

Peter raises his eyebrows. “You couldn’t afford me.” 

Stiles shrugs and grins. “Money is no object. I have a rich boyfriend.” 

Peter wrinkles his nose. “What do you mean by doing it properly? Are you suggesting I actually _ teach_?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “You’re pretty good at it, when you’re not being an asshole.” 

“Being an asshole is ninety percent of my personality.” 

“Ninety-five,” Stiles corrects. “But the other five percent is pretty amazing when it wants to be.” 

Peter taps a fingertip against his knee and hums. “You make a good point. Fine. I’ll run a workshop, on one condition.”

Stiles gets a hopeful expression. “Yeah? What’s that?”

Peter smiles. “That Laura provides me with some decent staff. The waiter she gave me last year was a fucking _ nightmare_.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Twist](https://queerfictionwriter.tumblr.com/), [Bunny](https://bunnywest.tumblr.com/), and [Winter](https://thisdiscontentedwinter.tumblr.com/) can also be found on Tumblr, though why you'd _want_ to find us after this, I don't know.


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